Deep breath. Once I say it out loud, I can never take it back. Here goes nothing.

 

“I have schizophrenia.”

 

I’m on a Zoom call with my entire office. Literally every single employee, fellow, and intern. We even delayed the start time by ten minutes because a couple colleagues were stuck on a call so that I could make the announcement to all my coworkers at once. The pressure is on.

 

I made the decision to come out at work fairly spontaneously. I had emailed a friend to ask if he would do a presentation on psychotic illness at my job with me if I hypothetically decided to come out. When he emailed me back a very enthusiastic “yes,” I checked my work calendar and realized the head of the nonprofit organization I worked for was going out on leave in two days through the beginning of Mental Health Awareness Month in May. That gave me exactly one day to tell her I had schizoaffective disorder, which is a combination of schizophrenia and a mood disorder, and ask her if I could do a presentation on it at my workplace.

 

When she agreed to let me do the presentation – and responded to my coming out to her in pretty much the best way imaginable – it was game-changing. I hung out with some friends a couple days later, and they said I seemed more like my old self than I had at any point since the onset of my disorder. When I told one of my colleagues at the National Alliance on Mental Illness, San Francisco, where I volunteer, she burst into tears. None of us – myself included – ever thought I’d be able to be out about having such a serious mental illness in the workplace. But I was going to take the chance anyway.

 

Sadly, a series of awkward coming outs had taught me that a presentation would probably be necessary if I came out in my workplace. I’d gone through a phase earlier on in my recovery where I subconsciously believed that if I acted like I was perfectly okay with my diagnosis, perhaps I could will myself into being okay with it. I therefore told anyone who would listen that I had schizoaffective disorder, and I didn’t always get reactions that left me feeling great. People were at best confused, as nobody outside of the mental health advocacy sphere and the medical field really knows what schizoaffective disorder is. At worst, they were judgmental, projecting the worst stereotypes associated with schizophrenia and severe mental illness onto me. These experiences taught me that if I wanted to come out at work, I would need to explain my disorder and how I wanted to be treated in light of it.

 

So my co-presenter and I got right to work building a presentation from the ground up to destigmatize “psychotic” illness – or illness involving psychosis – in the workplace. We’d both done tons of mental health stigma reduction presentations before, but none quite like this. The workplace presentations I’d given in the past aimed to encourage audience members to start conversations and seek support for their own mental health, and they largely focused on depression and anxiety. I always felt a bit out of place sharing my story with schizoaffective disorder in those contexts, since as far as I know no audience member for any of those presentations could ever relate to my experience with a disorder that only affects less than one percent of the population.

 

But this presentation would be different. This wasn’t about the audience members and their mental health – this was about me and my mental illness. This was about breaking stereotypes that people like me are dangerous, violent, unpredictable, and unreliable. This was about training my coworkers to be allies to people like me who have some of the most stigmatized mental health conditions.

 

After my proclamation in front of the entire office, my co-presenter and I shared our personal journeys with psychotic illness. “People like us are dehumanized in the media a lot,” I explained. “So we want to begin by humanizing ourselves.”

 

My co-presenter went first and did a fantastic job, as I knew he would. When it was my turn, I told my whole story exactly as it happened, without glossing over any of the “craziest” things I did or believed. I explained how I believed a team of psychologists was controlling all aspects of my life and experimenting on me against my will for ten months. I told stories of talking to myself on the street, breaking into houses and cars, shoplifting, getting tackled by police officers, and getting sedated by injection against my will on multiple occasions. And my coworkers listened empathetically. They laughed at my jokes and flashed expressions of genuine concern when I talked about the stigma and discrimination I faced.

 

We then transitioned into a discussion of how my colleagues could be allies to people like my co-presenter and I. “I wanted to go over how you can use the most empowering language possible to talk about people with psychiatric disabilities,” I told them, “and I’m excited. It just feels really great to demand respect when you’ve been marginalized, so thank you for letting me do that.”

 

After the presentation was over, my coworkers broke into applause. More than half of the people who attended the presentation emailed me to thank me for it. My favorite note said that that person had already started conversations about psychotic illness with those around him.

 

It’s always a high to tell your story – to not have to apologize for having a mental illness – but it’s multiplied manifold when you do it in your own workplace. For days, I watched the recording I’d made of the presentation over and over again, cheering myself on. I showed it to my mom, my grandparents, and my friends in the mental health advocacy space.

 

Coming out at work is one of my proudest accomplishments. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the kind of thing I can put on my resume. I was brave and stood up for what I believe in, and I refused to hide or apologize for who I am. I believe the day will come that those with psychotic illness are accepted and respected, and it’s actions like this that will get us there.